Classic Poem

Ah! might I in some humble Kentish dale
For ever eas'ly spend my slow-paced hours,
Much should I scorn fair Eton's pleasant vale,
Or Windsor, Tempe's self, and proudest towers:
There would I sit safe from the stormy showers,
And laugh the troublous winds and angry sky--
Piping (ah) might I live, and piping might I die!

And would my lucky fortune so much grace me,
As in low Cranebrook, or high Brenchly's hill,
Or in some cabin near thy dwelling, place me,
There would I gladly sport and sing my fill,
And teach my tender Muse to raise her quill;
And that high Mantuan shepherd' self to dare,
If ought with that high Mantuan shepherd mought compare.

There would I chant either thy Gemma's praise,
Or else my Fusca (fairest shepherdess),
Or, when me list my slender pipe to raise,
Sing of Eliza's fixëd mournfulness,
And much bewail such woeful heaviness,
Whilst she a dear-loved hart (ah, luckless!) slew:
Whose fall she all too late, too soon, too much, did rue.

But seeing now I am not as I would,
But here among the unhonoured willows' shade
The muddy Chame doth me enforcëd hold,
Here I forswear my merry piping trade:
My little pipe of seven reeds ymade
(Ah, pleasing pipe!) I'll hang upon this bough--
Thou Chame, and Chamish nymphs, bear witness of my vow!